Unlikely 2.0


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Editors' Notes

Maria Damon and Michelle Greenblatt
Jim Leftwich and Michelle Greenblatt
Sheila E. Murphy and Michelle Greenblatt

A Visual Conversation on Michelle Greenblatt's ASHES AND SEEDS with Stephen Harrison, Monika Mori | MOO, Jonathan Penton and Michelle Greenblatt

Letters for Michelle: with work by Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, Jeffrey Side, Larry Goodell, mark hartenbach, Charles J. Butler, Alexandria Bryan and Brian Kovich

Visual Poetry by Reed Altemus
Poetry by Glen Armstrong
Poetry by Lana Bella
A Eulogic Poem by John M. Bennett
Elegic Poetry by John M. Bennett
Poetry by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
A Eulogy by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Joel Chace
A Spoken Word Poem and Visual Art by K.R. Copeland
A Eulogy by Alan Fyfe
Poetry by Win Harms
Poetry by Carolyn Hembree
Poetry by Cindy Hochman
A Eulogy by Steffen Horstmann
A Eulogic Poem by Dylan Krieger
An Elegic Poem by Dylan Krieger
Visual Art by Donna Kuhn
Poetry by Louise Landes Levi
Poetry by Jim Lineberger
Poetry by Dennis Mahagin
Poetry by Peter Marra
A Eulogy by Frankie Metro
A Song by Alexis Moon and Jonathan Penton
Poetry by Jay Passer
A Eulogy by Jonathan Penton
Visual Poetry by Anne Elezabeth Pluto and Bryson Dean-Gauthier
Visual Art by Marthe Reed
A Eulogy by Gabriel Ricard
Poetry by Alison Ross
A Short Movie by Bernd Sauermann
Poetry by Christopher Shipman
A Spoken Word Poem by Larissa Shmailo
A Eulogic Poem by Jay Sizemore
Elegic Poetry by Jay Sizemore
Poetry by Felino A. Soriano
Visual Art by Jamie Stoneman
Poetry by Ray Succre
Poetry by Yuriy Tarnawsky
A Song by Marc Vincenz


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Two Poems by Michael Estabrook

Sewing

I said to my wife, “After all these years of study and academic experience,” (I have a bachelor’s degree, two master’s degrees, a PhD, three years of medical school, and a certificate from Harvard) “after all these many years of reading and writing everything from haiku to a 700 page thesis, I think I have finally found my genre, my medium.” Pat looks up from her sewing, “Oh?” “Yes, I’m going to concentrate on the prose poem.” She looks at me quietly. “That’s nice,” she says. “Yes, I think I’ve found my genre, but I’m not positive.” “Why not?” she asks, trying to pay attention to me and trying not to prick her finger at the same time. “I had this dream last night. I was in my library at the computer writing and there was this big brown bug, a Kafkaesque bug actually, of course, I mean what else could it be, on the floor in the middle of the room and I got up and stepped on it then picked it up in a paper towel. But when I looked in the towel to see it, it wasn’t there. I mean, it wasn’t in the paper towel or on the floor anymore either. It vanished. I thought I had it, but then I didn’t, you see what I mean?” My poor wife is patiently looking at me. “Oh, sure, a bug, I see,” she says and turns back to her sewing.




driving back home with a carload of our daughter's college gear

This drive is taking long, I wish I had some pretzels, look how the sun shines through the trees and across the road, bright and radiating like in movies about saints or Jesus, that little blue car looks like Robin’s car, but I know it isn’t because she’s behind me about 20 minutes, blinking yellow lights remind me of that Alfred Hitchcock film, I forget the name, where the guy was hypnotized so when he saw blinking yellow lights he’d try to kill somebody, speed limit 45 but who does 45 anymore, the car in front of me passed another car, seemed kind of angry, and as luck would have it a police car was sitting right there, (that’s kind of funny, like in a Steve Martin movie or better, like in the Dukes of Hazard TV series, remember that?) the officer pulled out, put on his lights, pulled him over, but I’m not sure what he did wrong, unless it was a no passing zone, I didn’t notice or maybe he was going faster than 45. (Still, it’s kind of funny, I remember this other movie where the guy was in the road waving his arms like crazy for the other car to stop and the guys in the other car gunned the engine past him, yelling and giving him the finger, then, of course, the road ended because the bridge was out and over they went, now that was a really funny scene.) But mostly I’m glad I didn’t get stuck going up and down these hills behind any of those trucks hauling those huge logs, that would have really been a bummer.


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